


respite and reflection at the end of the world

by zarazinia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Season 5 Spoilers, a quiet moment during the apocalypse, and mentions of other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 16:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarazinia/pseuds/zarazinia
Summary: Jon asks to rest. Martin reflects.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	respite and reflection at the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> I've been speedrunning Season 5 to catch up and now these guys live in my head forever. I wrote this the night before listening to the Salesa episode because of course I did.

Finding love at the end of the world should’ve been a metaphor. It should’ve been crammed somewhere in the English Literature homework of a fifteen-year-old who’d just discovered sonnets but didn’t understand the intricacies of the structure, and followed up with a line about how the subject of the writer’s affection’s hair was gently curled. But this wasn’t a line from Martin Blackwood’s GCSE homework. Not this time. This time, it was Martin Blackwood’s reality.

Jon hadn’t slept in god knows how long. Jon hadn’t needed to sleep for a while before everything happened, and he certainly didn’t need to sleep now. No one did. No one needed to rest, either. But, sometimes, people did things not because they needed to, but what they wanted to. That was part of what made them, well, people. What made them human. Maybe avatars weren’t human, but when Jon requested that they stop for a while - not to make a statement, as Martin had first dreaded, but just to take a break from it all? Well, he could hardly refuse.

There they were sat, shielded somehow from the uncomfortable silence of the vast surroundings by their own, chosen, comfortable silence. Before it had gotten comfortable, Martin had tried to break it with idle chatter about the weather (dark), and Scotland (arguably no longer in existence), and whether the cafe which used to give Institute workers free, ‘novelty’ ghost-shaped pastries would come back when everything was back to normal. The final talking point was met with an exasperated “Martin”, and when Martin saw his partner’s scarred fingers curl around the open front of his jacket as he relaxed in his arms, he realised that what Jon wanted was a rest from all of it. Just for a moment.

When Martin used to daydream about Jon, back before the end of the world, he never imagined he would’ve been physically affectionate. That wasn’t to say that Jon was secretly a hugger, not the way Tim and… not Not Sasha, but Sasha, he supposed, were all but glued together after a couple of drinks at the office Christmas party. Martin wouldn’t have objected if he had been, but he knew that wasn’t Jon. Jon was subtle. Jon would hold his hand as they walked and not acknowledge that he was doing anything. He’d drape his legs across Martin’s when they were sat on the sofa in Daisy’s safehouse. He’d lean on Martin sometimes and wait for him to put his arm around him, and though he tried his best to act like nothing was happening, Martin saw the hint of a smile when he did. Right now, Jon was curled into him, and Martin held him tight, releasing him only to push the stray greying hairs out of his eyes.

“If you want to try and sleep, I-”

“I can’t, Martin, I just… I just want to rest.”

“Right…”

Martin wondered what someone with the potential to know everything would dream about. Was there infinite potential, or was it confined to what Jon was aware of at the moment? The more he thought on it, the more confident he became in the fact that he didn’t want to find out. If he was Jon, even if he could sleep, he wouldn’t want to test it out unless he had to. It wasn’t as though he’d be able to wake Jon, anyway. Kill that thought; it wasn’t worth being bitter. Jon couldn’t help it. Though, Martin was privately glad that a certain Deathlike figure wouldn’t be appearing in these non-existent dreams. Do archivists dream of eldritch sheep? He laughed slightly at himself, the gentle shaking of his shoulders disturbing Jon’s sleepless rest.

“Mm-”

“Ah- sorry.”

“What is it?”

“It’s…”

It’s like something Tim would’ve said.

“It’s nothing.”

It would’ve been funnier if Tim had said it.

Jon didn’t press, and seemed satisfied with the answer, closing his eyes and resting comfortably on Martin once again. Martin idly stroked his back, focusing on the feel of him in his arms, trying not to think too hard about the man Tim Stoker had been at the end of his life. He supposed he’d always been the same man, he hadn’t undergone some… transformation, no, kidnapping, no, changing, not like Sasha, but… he was different. He was worlds away for the man who’d gently and not-so-gently teased Martin for his crush on the new Archivist — a crush which Martin had fervently denied, while the whole time making sure that Jon always had an extra biscuit with his tea, and that anyone who so much as tried to restore order to his desk was firmly and hurriedly shooed away. ‘Crush’ felt like too childish of a term, but at the same time, like the only one that had fit. His feelings for Jon, he thought, were futile, that they’d never be returned, that he’d look back on them in years to come and marvel at what a fool he was, to think that Jon would see him as anything other than, well, anxious, forgetful, useless Martin.

And yet, holding Jon as he was, he realised that this ‘crush’ was the only thing left from the time before the change that Martin was truly glad he’d held on to. This crush wasn’t a crush, it had grown into what Martin could, for the first time in his life, confidently describe as love. The first time he’d said it, laying on the floor of the cabin with Jon lounging across his back, it was a slip of the tongue, it was too soon. When Jon said it back — or, to be exact, had said “and I love you, also” — the only thing convincing Martin of the fact that he wasn’t dreaming, was the knowledge that he couldn’t sleep.

Martin wished Tim was still around to see this. Martin wished that Tim was still around. He couldn’t miss Sasha the way he’d missed Tim, because Sasha hadn’t been Sasha when they’d realised they’d lost her. Tim hadn’t been the same since then, and Martin wondered if that was what had decided his fate, long before his hatred for Jon had become a factor. The thought of losing the one he loved (and Tim’s quiet love for Sasha had been, in Martin’s eyes, more obvious than his own feelings for Jon), and learning later that the face you remembered wasn’t theirs, must’ve been a pain so intense that Martin didn’t want to so much as think about it. He realised he was hugging Jon more tightly than he had been, but Jon didn’t seem to mind at all. Jon wasn’t the man the others had thought he was. He wasn’t scheming and he wasn’t evil. He wasn’t hell-bent on destroying the world and he wasn’t Elias’ — sorry, Jonah’s —minion. He hadn't been a murderer then, and avatars didn’t count now. He liked rollercoasters and had terrible posture. Martin was presently walking through hell for him. Hell with Jon felt safer than any one-man shortcuts that Helen could offer. Anything with Jon made this new world that little bit more bearable.

Martin couldn’t help but think about what would come after. He wasn’t stupid enough to dare to dream about an apartment in Vauxhall — maybe not Vauxhall, maybe Hammersmith if they were lucky (how much does the Archivist make, anyway?) — coupled with mornings of domestic bliss, of cups of tea and breakfast radio and a commute on the tube made that little bit less of a chore by the fact they were taking it together. But… he could be with Jon, couldn’t he? Maybe they wouldn’t have their jobs at the Institute, but they’d have each other. A year ago, Martin would’ve quietly scoffed at a couple in a film who believed that would be enough to sustain them, but in the world in which he currently lived, his hope for a future with Jon was the only thing keeping him going, sometimes.

“I think I’m getting soft.”

“You’ve always been soft.”

Martin laughed slightly once again, shaking his head. Coming from anyone else, he would’ve taken it as an insult. Coming from Elias — no, Jonah, one day he’d get it right — or Peter Lukas, it would’ve been an indication of a shortcoming. He didn’t want to dare to assume what Jon meant, but he contented himself with the fact that it wasn’t meant as a negative. That was… that was nice. That was a nice thought to dwell on.

“Jon?”

“...Yes?”

Jon raised his head slightly.

“I… I love you.”

“I love you, also.”

Jon lowered his head, and Martin smiled to himself. Despite everything, despite everything that was happening, there were good things, and these good things had happened to him. Jon was a good thing and so was being alive. So was this moment, even though this moment took place in what could be safely described as an apocalyptic wasteland to those who favour drama. He kissed the top of Jon’s head, and closed his eyes.

“Martin?”

“Mm?”

Martin moved to stroke Jon’s back, realising only then that Jon was pulling free. Martin’s eyes snapped open and he let go, allowing Jon to stand.

“We need to keep going.”

Good things didn’t last forever.


End file.
